


Anchor Point

by Ladycat



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, spoilers for the movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:38:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a pulse burrowing inside her belly, unbearable tension that makes her want to strip down right here and climb him like a tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchor Point

"Hello?"

Darcy doesn't come down to this particular dojo or whatever it's called that often. Almost no one did. Sure, everybody _says_ that Barton and Romonav don't get special treatment when they're within SHIELD premises, but it doesn't really work that way. They get more crap thrown at them than almost all the other agents and that corresponds to a few extra perks.

Like their own workout room. Dojo. It mostly looks like the same place Darcy took endless ballet classes before her breasts got big enough that she could convince her mother that dancing was in no way in her future: smoothly planed blond wood and mirrors lining the back wall reflecting the dimness of the room.

"Uh. Hey, Darcy."

Another perk is no cameras. At all.

Rope hangs from the ceiling. It’s the real kind, hemp or some other harsh material and clearly braided by an imperfect human hand. Strands poke out at random intervals, digging in to the wrists and forearms they're wrapped around- i>framing around, really- before they trail all the way to the floor.

Clint is approximately ten feet in the air, held up only by those ropes. The only reason his wrists aren't popping out of their socket is he's holding _himself_ up against those ropes. See again the concept of rough, simple hemp framing the sort of flexed, bulging muscles that belong on magazines. The kinds where no one's face is ever seen, all body shots of-

Well, the only word Darcy can come up with is _unf._

She's never really been into big guys. Thor is gorgeous and all, but he's also _huge._ The possibility of that translating to huge all over is damn appealing- but at the same time, not. Clint has all the bulging, powerful muscles a girl could want, complete with a view of veins she wants to _bite_ , but he isn't Schwarzenegger proportioned, before or after the steroids. He's almost compact. Stocky, maybe, like a bulldog.

Darcy is pretty sure of the comparison. They’ve been going out for a few months, now. She has _evidence_.

"Ogling is not helping me."

"Oh, was I supposed to be helping? Cause Natasha just dragged me down here and shoved me in the room." There was a suspicious click right after the door shut, too. Darcy looks back at it thoughtfully. "Also, she may have locked us in."

Clint mutters something in Russian. The tone is pretty clear, even if the words aren't.

"I wouldn't threaten to kill her even if this place isn't being recorded. I mean, it's the _Black Widow."_

"I know. I met her first."

The friendship between Natasha and Darcy horrifies just about everyone in SHIELD and the Avengers, including Darcy. Who is pretty damn happy being Natasha's friend, but seriously, it's scary as hell. This isn't the first time she's grabbed Darcy and hauled her somewhere with nothing but one of her frankly terrifying eyebrow twitches.

This is the first time she's given Darcy presents, though.

Darcy looks back up to where Clint is swaying slightly to what she guesses is the beat of his heart, his muscles crunching tighter as he repositions himself.

Then she has to stop and swallow a little. Christ, that man is _gorgeous._

"Look, are you going to help me or not?"

"Excuse me?" she demands, stung by his tone. "You're the super awesome agent, you can get out of this yourself."

The lighting isn't very strong. Darcy would almost call it romantic, a thought she ascribes to _way_ too much time spent with Natasha given the particular setting. She can still see the dull, ruddy glow as Clint blushes.

He blushes.

"Hunh," Darcy says. "Didn't they, like, beat that out of you in training?"

The blush gets a lot less dull. And- holy crap, his ears are trembling.

"She lockmre."

"Once more in English?"

"She _locked me here._ "

Oh.

_Oh._

Darcy steps closer and pays attention to more than just the incredibly appealing sight of Clint in one of his ubiquitous sleeveless shirts flexing and generally being manly and attractive. The rope is as she initially thought, the kind better suited to docks and Hollywood's depiction of poor fishing villages than a SHIELD gym where everything is about as high tech as possible, even the rope. Why it's bright green Darcy hasn't been able to figure out, but hey. Green rope. Apparently a thing.

The glint of metal catches her eyes. Clint isn't wearing the arm and finger guards he uses for archery, so if she follows the source of it...

"Wow. Rope _and_ handcuffs. Have you been a bad boy, Clint?"

There's a second or two that Darcy in no way understands before Clint gruffly snaps, "I'm getting tired. Key is by the mirrors."

"No, seriously," she says, tilting her head back so she sees more than the soles of his shoes. This is when she notices that his pants are hanging tighter than usual. Unf, again. "What did you do? Normally she just beats the crap out of you. Acrobatic bondage seems a little... pointed."

There's also the whole issue of why Darcy got dragged down here, but she's willing to wait on that one. This is primo annoy Clint material and she isn't the type to waste such an opportunity.

"It doesn't matter. Key, please. I'd like to get down."

Yeah, and she'd like to be Tony Stark's long-lost daughter. Snorting, she moves into his field of vision and folds her arms over her chest. "Story."

"Darcy- "

"Story, or I start taking pictures."

This time the Russian mutterings are directed at her. There's a particular tone Clint has that's all hers, different from Natasha's but still recognizable. It's the warmth that never really disappears no matter how annoyed he is, a lack of viciousness or dismissiveness. Sure, that isn't a word, but contempt implies a level of awareness that he doesn't have for people who aren't within his incredibly narrow circle. Before the Avengers, it was really just Natasha.

Joining the Avengers has been good for him in that regard.

"We started talking, I said something I shouldn't have, and Tasha's a bitch."

"Ooooh, man, you are _never_ getting down now," she chirps. "You know she'll make you pay for that."

"She turned the voice recorder off."

Rumor said no cameras, not no surveillance of any kind. It is SHIELD after all.

"Like she won't know by looking at you. What was it you shouldn't have said?"

"Nothing. Darcy, let me down."

That was grumpy soldier voice. In dangerous situations, Darcy's body has been known to obey it without any conscious commands from her brain. Okay so it was only once, but it was a good thing she did so she hasn't thought about it a lot. Except maybe in a hello, possibilities way and-

Darcy tilts her head up with a narrowed glare. "Is this about that thing?"

The blush comes back. Red as cherries and she licks her lips, noticing it only when cool air hits with a little shock. She wants to taste that blush.

Clint zeros in on the motion, staring. "... what thing?"

"The thing where you dismiss something I know is ok just because you're what- a teensy bit older than I am? Worried it’ll get too deep? C’mon, Clint, at least give me a reason why not."

Sadly, that pushes Clint out of his stare and back into a frown. It makes the lines between his eyes darken and Darcy has no way of explaining just how insanely hot that is. The focus of his gaze whether or not there's intent behind it. It makes her want to shiver.

Get wet.

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Yeah, well, clearly Tasha _does_ and I gotta tell you, she is way scarier than you are."

A few things are starting to make sense. Darcy is a pretty smart girl- and Natasha isn't really all that subtle. Her lack of words is sometimes frustrating as hell, but puzzles had been a staple of Darcy's childhood and she's nearly got this one figured out.

She heads over to the wall where a complicated looking winch is stuck in the ground, plus a heavy iron key. The latter she picks up and pockets, the former she looks at for a while. Stupid science. There's probably some mathematical equation that will tell her the perfect amount of rope to let out, but her focus is _political_ science. Kinda useless when she needs physics.

With a shrug, she turns the crank part of the contraption once, then again. Clint exhales heavily in relief. "Jesus, finally," he says, which is exactly the wrong thing to say.

Because the third turn ends with a _click._

Darcy takes her hand away. 

And stares in the mirror, open-mouthed.

Clint is on the ground. Well, nearly. His toes are resting on the floor, anyway, letting most of his weight off his shoulders.

But his arms are stretched above his head, still caught up in the complicated rope-cuffs contraption that Natasha has him in.

Darcy says, "Unf."

"I'm going to kill her," Clint vows.

Darcy nods, then realizes what she's doing and shakes her head. "No, you aren't."

"Let. Me. Out."

Turning around slowly, Darcy uses the moment to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she looks at Clint with her chin tilted up, as calmly and levelly as she can. It isn't very, but hey. Points for effort, right?

She says, "Ask me nicely."

"Darce- "

"Ask. Me. Nicely."

There's no harsh crack of a whip in her voice like he had, moments before. Instinctively she knows she can't pull that one off and doesn't try. She just says it, slowly and firmly, looking squarely into Clint's blush-stained face without flinching.

Last time this happened, she'd flinched. Forget what other now-clearly irrelevant reasons Clint came up with, she knows damn well it was the problem. He's always trusted her to let him know what her limits are, careful without being coddling. He'd been cautiously into it, even, and by cautiously she'd later revised it to _hopefully_ , at least until she'd realized they were talking about something serious, instead of the half-conscious snark and flirting they did as a matter of course-

-and she’d flinched.

Clint's throat moves as he swallows wetly. The room is utterly empty and silent. There’s a dead quality, like fresh snow over the city, muffling them from the rest of the world. She can hear the rasp of his breathing, the creak of rope as he shifts and more of his weight settles on the floor. He could probably get out, now. He isn't.

"Sir," Clint says, voice an octave lower and scraped over gravel, "let me out."

Darcy chews on her lip for a moment. "No. If I do, you'll run away."

He gives her a hot, furious glare. Darcy ignores it. Walks forward until she can press a hand to the heavy muscles of his stomach. They flutter under her touch, a quick, harsh exhale warm on her shoulder.

"Not maligning your manhood, or whatever," she says quietly. "But you'll run. And next time, Natasha won't leave us alone."

Clint's pupils are blown wide when she looks into his eyes. Dark as sin, as the night sky.

"We can play with that thought, later. Right now..." Darcy swallows against her dry throat, then leans up to give him a slow kiss. "Are you straining your arms?"

"No, sir."

The answer is instant. She’s heard him say ‘sir’ before, but this is different, intimate and- and hers. Almost reverent, flavored with gratitude she doesn't understand. Whatever, Darcy knows what she's doing now, and she isn't going to let a little thing like confusion stop her from it. She runs her hands up over his shoulders, squeezing over his biceps, feeling the tension coiled tight at the base, before bringing them back down to his chest.

"We need a word," she says, breathing shallowly. She is so _far_ out of her depth it isn't even funny, but that, too, isn't going to stop her. Not when there's a stillness in Clint that she's been bumbling after for weeks, chasing without ever knowing what exactly it is she wants. It's this, this moment when Clint looks at her with fathomless eyes and there's nothing but calm underneath his skin, palpable wherever she touches him.

"No we don't."

"Yeah," she cracks back, "we do. Uh- Sidewalk. Okay?"

They don't talk about what happened very often. Clint went to all his psych sessions like a dutiful soldier but no way can he possibly be _better_ after something like that. Darcy has never pressed, figuring that Clint's an adult- twelve years older, as he's so fond of reminding her- and when he wants help, he knows they're all here for him.

But if they're going to do this, this thing they've been dancing around for weeks, Darcy is going to work hard not to make things worse. So, a word. An escape hatch, just like the exits and lines of sight Clint orients himself around. The others call it instinct or training. Darcy calls it obsessiveness, habit that's gone so deep it can't possibly be rooted out.

"Okay?"

He nods shallowly. "Yeah, fine. Sidewalk. I won't- "

"That isn't the point. The point is- whatever. You have it. Say it."

"Sidewalk."

Low, again, scraped raw and heavy with need, Clint makes the word sound like pure sex.

"I want this." It isn't what she means to say. "Okay? I _want_ it."

And Clint says, "Yes, sir."

It's the hottest thing she's ever done and they haven't even _done_ anything yet.

Taking a step back helps her collect her thoughts. There's no reason to rush this. A whole lot of reasons not to, actually, and without the feel of Clint's heat against her palm, smelling his sweat and skin, it's easier for her to remember that. Well, a little easier. There's a pulse burrowing inside her belly, unbearable tension that makes her want to strip down right here and climb him like a tree. Which, actually, is a thought. With all those mirrors behind her...

"Sir?" Clint asks, soft and with a hint of concern.

She knows the next thing he's going to say is ‘sidewalk’ just because she's staring at nothing- probably glassily- and breathing pretty heavily.

"Just collecting my thoughts. Lots of possibilities."

Unlike his effortlessly sexy responses, Darcy can hear how strangled she sounds, thin and way too fucking young. Strangely, Clint doesn't seem to mind, his eyes widening and staring at her with naked hunger.

Oh hell yes they're doing this.

But not _that_ , the tree climbing thing. As much as she trusts Clint's physical strength, she is not that light and she isn't going to trust her weight to a twist of hemp and iron around his wrists. That's asking for injuries and the fastest way to stop this from ever happening again, she is completely sure.

So. Simple things.

Something she likes maybe a little more than he does, but something that he'll absolutely enjoy.

Right.

Darcy approaches him again, pushing her hands up underneath his t-shirt to scratch lightly over his chest and stomach. He's slick with sweat and as always startlingly smooth. Each bump and divot sends a jolt of electricity through her body as she traces up and down, pushing the shirt up so she can circle his nipples with a delicately light touch, watching his face.

When his eyes flutter, she immediately backs off.

"You're so hot," she tells him, transferring her attentions to his arms, stretching up on tip toes to reach no higher than his elbows. That's ok, though. She's done the whole-body examination before and as much as she loves to grab onto his forearms, feeling them move against her fingers, the power there like an extra level of heat when he's inside her, right now she wants his biceps.

Clint has a thing about his biceps. Sure, the sleeveless look is an operational necessity. Darcy has no doubt that if it weren't true, than he'd be as covered up as Natasha, since they wear nearly the same sort of outfit. Clint isn't really vain but he has a few issues with how slight he is, shorter than just about every other guy and probably half the size of everyone but maybe Tony. Even Banner in doctor form is a bigger guy than Clint.

Not as cut or as well muscled, of course. But still bigger.

So Clint goes into battle showing the only guns he prefers to use, a living symbol that slight doesn't mean small or weak, doesn't mean inconsequential or unnecessary.

Especially since he's none of those things.

Squeezing over his biceps makes Darcy gasp louder than he does, staring glassily as she rubs up and down the curve of muscle, scraping her nails over the length of some of his veins. It probably shouldn't be so sexual, should probably be sort of perverse and wrong. Fetishist, maybe. Darcy prefers to think of it as her seeing Clint, a way to let him know that she _does_ see him.

She doesn't realize she's leaning against him until Clint's hips jerk, pressing into her. His groan travels through her chest and down to her cunt, already dripping wet. "Darcy," he whispers.

"Shhh. My show."

Another of those wet, incredibly hot swallows, and he nods. "Yes, sir."

She kisses him next, still stretched over his body with her fingers hooked into his elbows. Clint opens his mouth immediately, letting her lick over the roof of his mouth, sucking on his tongue with a demanding edge that Darcy doesn't aim for consciously or bother trying to control. That's the trade off, she's realizing, as she presses into him as deeply as she can. She may be pulling his strings, but her own control is a fragmented, fractured thing and rapidly dwindling entirely. She can't think for the pulse that bangs in her ears, the length of hardness against her stomach when she arches into him.

Realizing that is a slow thing. When the thoughts finally coalesce Darcy pulls back. Then away completely so none of her is touching him. Clint makes a rough, despairing noise, pulling at the ropes holding him back and almost Darcy says _fuck it_ and dives for him. He could probably get out of the damn cuffs if she really needed him to, right? And then he could- they could-

No. Darcy shakes her head, hard, hair flying into her eyes. No, she's doing this right.

There's no way to take off his shirt entirely, but Clint willingly bends his head and lets her slip it behind so it yokes his shoulders. "Could cut it, sir," he suggests.

She slaps his now-naked chest lightly. "No. I like you like this."

So, is quite apparent, does he.

"Sir," he says, and sighs into the closest he can come to 'rest' with his arms stretched up above him. The cotton pushes his head forward a little and maybe he's leaning into it, because when he looks at her, Darcy realizes he's looking _up_ at her, through those insanely long lashes.

If spontaneous combustion is possible, Darcy is probably going to find out any moment now.

"Remember the word," she murmurs as she circles him, watching him watch her through the mirror. "Do you remember it?"

"Yes, sir."

If possible, hearing that gets hotter with repetition. She doesn't make him repeat it for fear that he might use it, instead reaching around his back to rub over his stomach, then down to his pants. Together they watch as she undoes the button and slowly pushes down the zipper.

"I thought about doing this with my mouth," she tells him. "I know you like that. Maybe I will, later."

Within moments, his pants and boxers are pooled around his ankles.

"You're gorgeous, Clint. Hot."

She proves it with her hands, running from his shoulders down to over his hips, the heavy power of his thighs. Darcy knows that strength, has felt it push in to her over and over until they were both crying out with how good it was. There's sweat on the inside of his thighs and she rubs at it, letting her nails trace where she knows he's sensitive. It makes him stiffen- his back, since his cock can't possibly get harder- leaning back against her with a low moan.

"Don't be quiet. I like hearing you."

While Clint is not, say, Steve-sized, he isn't exactly a waif either. Darcy has to come further around his side in order to comfortably reach, one arm around his back to hold him while her hand closes around his cock and slowly strokes it.

"Don't forget the word," she tells him, watching the gleam of his eyes in the mirror. "Not ever, Clint."

It isn't patronizing. At least, it isn't meant as patronizing. Of course Clint remembers a simple, every day sort of word like the one she'd picked. The concepts behind it, though, those are things Darcy isn't at all sure Clint will remember. Consent is a big one, and how Clint is supposed to be enjoying this, not merely enduring it. That this is for _them_.

His cock twitches in her grip and Darcy smiles. "Tell me you won't forget."

"I won't, sir," he responds immediately.

So many ways to say _I love you._

Clint's cock is a reflection of the rest of him. It isn't massive, but it is thick and heavy as she strokes up to the tip, twisting her grip until he gasps and his head falls back into the cradle of his shirt. "I'm going to do this until you come," she murmurs. "I know you hate it."

He makes a rough, negative sound.

"Oh, you like getting off," she allows with a low chuckle. "And you will. I'm going to make you come hard enough that you see stars. Hold onto the rope."

The order is off hand and tacked on. Watching Clint immediately tighten his fingers around the rope, pulling himself a little higher onto his toes and- incidentally- putting his cock at an easier angle for her to grip is the _hottest thing she has ever seen._

And then he whispers, "Sir."

Holy god are they doing this again. Lots and lots of times.

"But you like touching me when you do. Not being touched." Darcy rubs her cheek against his chest. She has to be careful not to rest all her weight on him. "The way I am. You want to have your hands on me. To feel how much I like it, too. Watching you, feeling you get off. Coming with you."

 _"Sir,"_ is a rasping, heartfelt plea.

Fuck staying completely impartial. Darcy spreads her legs, pressing her cunt to his hip. She doesn't rub, though. Or grind the way her body is screaming to do. She just rests there, still stroking up and down his cock with long, familiar strokes. He's completely slick by now since she'll swipe a thumb over the head every time she's at the tip. Throbbing lightly in her grip she knows he's almost ready to beg her to come.

And one day, she's going to make him do that. Beg with that sex-thick voice that makes her shiver and sweat no matter what he's saying, promising her anything so long as he gets to come.

Just not now.

Darcy knows Clint trusts her. The fact that he's doing this at all is all the sign she ever needs. But there's trust and then there's racing for all the boundaries and shoving at them carelessly. Darcy is a lot of things and definitely 'careless' is one of them- but not with Clint. Not when she's holding more than just his cock, listening to him make those desperate, almost hiccuping moans that means he's nearly there, shivering and twitching against her because he literally cannot stay still.

Not unless she tells him to.

She doesn't. Instead she speeds up her hand, trading tension and precision for the steady rise of friction that he needs. Listens to him come apart in her arms, panting and almost completely undone, and all the while staring at her through the mirror.

At what she thinks is pretty much the last second, Darcy pulls her gaze away and stretches up to get her mouth near his ear. "I want to see you come, Clint. Hard."

It isn't immediate. Human bodies don't work like that no matter how highly responsive their owners might be. It's still permission, though, and after a few more messy stripes over his cock Clint arches like one of his bows and comes in deep, shuddering pulses.

It's hot as fucking hell.

It's also beautiful. Darcy's never really seen a distinction between the two terms, but watching Clint go absolutely limp as he spills, his body sagging into his bonds and Darcy's arm around his waist, his knees almost bucking, _beautiful_ becomes something far more profound. Tangible, as salty as his sweat and come in the air, and infinitely more desirable.

It's a little scary the way Clint _hangs_ when Darcy steps away. Like he can't possibly hold himself up. It makes her move quicker, her fingers less sure as she lowers the winch until he's all the way to the ground- in fact, he's _lying_ on it- fumbling the key out of her pocket as she scrambles back.

"Christ," he says, low and heartfelt.

That comes a second after the cuffs click open and for a moment, Darcy's certain that this went wrong. That he's going to flip into one of those ninja moves and just vanish. Hide from her from now on, and despite SHIELD not being all that big and oh, them _living together_ in the Avenger's mansion, she knows he can do it. If Clint wanted to be a ghost, not even those stupid Syfy ghost hunter shows would ever find him.

Groaning, Clint rolls onto his stomach and pillows his head on her knee. "I think you killed me."

Holy shit. He's _whining._ He's also giving her a goofy, completely sexed-up grin, and Darcy's heart starts to beat again.

"Dead men don't whine."

"Meh," he says, waving a loose-fingered hand. "Gimme a sec to get feeling in my body and then I am going to make you scream."

Well, that's a promise Darcy is happy to let him keep. She's a little concerned about the no feeling in his body thing, but as she watches he starts doing some of his stretches, contorting himself in a way that makes her absolutely believe his circus past.

All wearing that same silly smile.

She's grinning herself by the time he realizes he's rolling around on a pretty hard floor. He makes a disgusted noise, pushing up onto his knees and then back down so his legs are crossed before him.

It makes a convenient lap for him to yank her into.

"Hey," he says, rubbing his nose against hers, eyes dancing before he kisses her blind and stupid.

"Mmm. More kisses." She grabs at his arms, pulling them more tightly around her. This is always the part where the twelve years older thing tends to rear its head with silly, unnecessary things like wanting to _talk_ and- 

"Darcy..."

"God, can we not? Please? It was hot. We liked it. You totally liked it, right?"

Twelve years older should probably mean that sheepish smiles and blushing are under control, but nope. Clint does both. "I totally liked it."

"Hey, no mocking how I speak."

"Baby," and oh, that is no _fair!_ He only uses that occasionally and it never fails to make her melt into him. She compromises by scowling as she snuggles closer. "You ok?"

"I'm not the one who got to hang by his wrists for... uhm, how long were you there before I came down?"

"That's not what I mean. And yes," he adds when she pokes his side, "I'm fine. Be sore tomorrow, probably."

"Good sore?"

"Good sore. Darcy, are you ok?"

She leans back enough to meet his gaze, feeling very young and strangely vulnerable given he's the naked one. "I'd like to do it again, sometime. I really liked that."

His smile is slow, syrupy as sugar under a hot Georgia sun, and her mouth parts automatically before he even starts to lean in to kiss her. He drops a hand between her legs, talented fingers finding her clit despite the soaked jeans she's wearing, rubbing her until she moans into his mouth, hips hitching as she suddenly remembers just how needy she is.

If he doesn't want to do this again, they won't.

But oh, god, she really does want to. Having Clint give to her like that had been something she doesn't have the words to explain- and more, that same sense of peace when he hung there doing only what she told him is around, clinging to his skin and behind his eyes. He's smiling into the kiss, laughing when she gets frustrated and nips his tongue. 

She'd do anything to see him this- this _happy._

"We'll do it again," he tells her, breath cooling her lips before he noses her head back to find that spot behind her ear, the one that makes her squirm. "Much as we want."

It's significant that he says that and not, say, as much as _she_ wants. Darcy thinks that right before he gets her jeans and panties down past her knees, and then he's pushing her onto the floor and settling between her thighs and she has to bite her fist to stop from screaming just as much as he promised she would.

He pauses long enough to lift up and show off his shiny mouth, lips swollen and red. "Don't," he says. "I want to hear you."

So Darcy stops muffling herself and screams so loudly that Natasha, wherever she is, can probably hear her.

Hopefully she does. If not, Darcy has _ideas_ on how to say thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [ these](http://ladycat777.livejournal.com/1155531.html) photos of Renner arm porn.


End file.
